Maybe They Were More Than Bells
by Stabitha
Summary: The abhorsen bells were once real people, and now, after many years, here they are again. But why. And how?


Title : Subject to Change

Author: Unwilling Angel

Category: Still, dunno. Maybe humor or angst or romance (my favorites) 

Summary: The spirits of the Abhorsen bells have been brought to life in seven humans. What they do, how they do it, and how they manage to get along is all with them.

Author's Note: I don't own the idea of the abhorsen, nor do I own the bell's names. But I do own their personalities and descriptions. Kibeth is not after the disreputable dog, much as I love her, but one of my on ideas. 

Feedback: is like chocolate. Not necessary, but hard to live, or write for that matter, without. Please read and review. I'm open to suggestions for what will come next. ^_^

And now, without further ado...

There were seven of them, the young necromancers named after the set of bronze abhorsen bells. Ranna, Mosrael, Kibeth, Dyrim, Belgaer, Saraneth, and Astarael. Each living up to their separate names, each doing one job in death. 

Ranna was the Sleeper. Always tired, taking little cat naps here and there, and the necromancer who lulled all who heard her quiet voice. Narcoleptic you could say, though the disease was not the problem, but the namesake bell which hung about her neck. Ranna had ash blonde hair that was a bit on the shaggy side, down to her shoulders, and hazy blue eyes, usually closed or glazed over, framed in long blonde lashes. A child like figure and a short height only add to the seemingly naive look, though when one has seen the Dead, they can no longer have that same innocence children do. 

Mosrael, the waker, was the balance between some of the necromancers. He let them fight to an extent, of course, they couldn't know he was stopping their conflicts. Just a light note of his voice could send one of them into death, and could bring the Dead back. Always being busy with the balancing of the people around him did not allow Mosrael an entirely clean look. Chocolate brown eyes loomed under untidy red hair and freckles scattered over his nose. He was almost too tall for his young age of the beginning teen years and was usually rather gawky. He protected Ranna like an older brother might have. 

Kibeth was the walker. He was prone to leaving in the middle of an argument, or important meeting to let his mind wander while he took a walk in the River of Death. He was yet another one of those kids who could never sit still for more then ten minutes. His choppy, short blond hair and piercing green eyes went with Kibeth's pale, luminous skin and aristocratic looks. Kibeth had always been a lover of mischief and playfulness, even being so world-weary. He smiled often, laughed a lot, and if Mosrael didn't take away conflict, his light-heartedness would easily. 

Dyrim, the speaker. A young girl about Mosrael's age who never, ever shut up. She could, if she had someone willingly there, talk for hours and hours on end about nothing, everything, and anything. When she would let out a low sound from her voice, a solid powerful note, it gave the dead the power to speak, or made her able to read minds and tell secrets. Her light brown hair tumbled down her back in curls. She was bouncy all around and her large light brown eyes were usually bright and happy. 

Belgaer, the thinker. Dyrim's exact opposite in most ways except for their looks, being twins. Though Dyrim's hair was perfectly stick straight, and her eyes lacked the brightness that Kibeth's did, and instead held an intelligence. She almost always had her nose in a book, and spent plenty of time pushing her thin-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. Dyrim always dressed in conservative colors, and usually wore her long, plain brown hair plaited halfway down her back. When she would sing, the Dead could retain a part of their mind that they lost through death. 

Saraneth. The Binder. She was probably closest with Astarael. Saraneth was somewhat of a control freak, always wanting to at least have a hand in being in control. Always trustworthy, her voice could make the dead to anything that was wanted. In control. She was tall, taller than most of them and thin, almost scrawny. Olive skin was paired with large black eyes and long ebony hair that curled softly with a few vibrant blue streaks throughout it. Saraneth tended to annoy others with her domineering personality.

Astarael the weeper, and the last and most powerful of the Abhorsen bells. She was small for her age.. petite you could say. The worst job of all the necromancers, for all who heard her clear voice while she was dealing with death would be brought into it, including herself, unless Fate decided to intervene. So, Astarael decidedly distanced herself from everyone. From her golden eyes to her long, glossy, black hair, she was always different. Pale moonlight colored skin was decorated in numerous silver rings and necklaces, and about 7 random charter marks that had no purpose. Long, naturally black nails were at the end of long thin fingers. As the weeper, pushing herself away came natural to Astarael. 

These seven were the best necromancers that the world had known in a long time, yet, at the same time, they were just children. Children who wanted to be regular. Who wanted real lives. 

And here is where it all begins. 


End file.
